


your dreams lie right in the palm of your hand

by mayerwien



Series: Stopping for a Spell [5]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, Gen, Healers, Healing, Mages, Magic, Teacher-Student Relationship, magic inn au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 05:39:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15112928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: Sometimes Isabella borrowed books from Mistress Minako, reading about life in lands far beyond Hasetsu, wondering if she would ever get to see any of those places or do any of those things before she died. There was nothing wrong with living a quiet life, Isabella knew—but she couldn’t help feeling that she wanted somethingmore.Exactly what, though, or how she would go about achieving it, she didn’t know.





	your dreams lie right in the palm of your hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strikinglight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight/gifts).



> SORPRESA, MARGARITA
> 
> I'm so sorry that this has literally been rotting in my drafts for over a YEAR. So I finally decided to just sit my ass down and finish it...in the airport while waiting for my plane. 
> 
> Set the spring right before “every little thing she does is magic." FINALLY, WE GET TO SEE THE FAMOUS ISABELLA HAIRCUT MOMENT. (Also to clarify, in this AU, JJ is about ten years older than Isabella, so they’re not going to legit get together for a long while. Apologies in advance for all the slow burns. *coughs at Otayuri*)
> 
> On that note, as mentioned previously Meg and I did make a timeline for all the shenanigans we’re plotting in this verse, but we’re not necessarily writing the stories in chronological order—I _do_ think we’re trying to set this whole series up so that you can read each fic as more or less a standalone, though! Feel free to ask if there are any questions you have about the world or the characters or things like that; we’d be happy to answer them. :3

_and as he spoke, he spoke ordinary words_  
_though they did not feel_  
_for I felt what I had not felt before_  
_and you'd swear those words could heal_

         - Vanessa Carlton, “Ordinary Day”

 

\--

 

Isabella Yang never thought she would be anything more than the shoemaker’s daughter.

She’d always known she wasn’t particularly clever, or talented, or brave. She wasn’t like her friend Sara, who was riding bareback and climbing the tallest of the apple trees at seven years old, and who at only seventeen was already helping to take over her parents’ farm. Everyone could see Sara had a farmer’s instinct; while her brother, Michele, busied himself with the ledgers, scratching his head over crop yields and market prices, Sara was on her hands and knees in the loam, or reading the clouds and predicting, down to the hour, when the next rain shower would be.

Isabella wasn’t like Mila either; as a girl, Mila had gotten into shouting matches and brawls with the village boys almost every week, always coming home with a split lip or a black eye but smiling with grim satisfaction no matter whether she’d won or lost. She was the fiercest of the three of them, without question—and the most independent, too, as had been clear ever since the day her mother hitched a ride out of town on the cart of a passing cloth merchant and went into the wide world seeking adventure, leaving Mila in the care of the Katsuki family. (Mila bore her mother no ill will about the whole affair; she always liked to say that she was one-third raised by her mother, one-third raised by the Katsukis, and one-third raised by herself.) It was clear Mila had inherited her mother’s knack with potions and charms, and Mari Katsuki was instructing her in the art of barkeeping as well; already Mila’s spicy, flavorful brews were popular among the evening crowd at the inn.

So compared to her friends, Isabella was nothing special—hardly what you would call a self-reliant woman, possessing no particular power or skill. She was a fair student, tutoring her little cousins and some of the younger children in the schoolhouse, and her aunt often complimented her on her cooking and her fine needlework, but that was all. Every week Isabella’s father sent her to purchase leather from the tanner, but never let her help with the actual shoemaking process; that task fell to his sister’s eldest son, Peter, who was his apprentice and would one day take over his shop.

No, if there was anything Isabella was known for, it was her beauty.

Even when Isabella was younger, the adults in the village often commented on how much Master Yang’s daughter resembled a doll, with those dark eyes and long lashes of hers. In the schoolyard, she had scraped her knees and soiled her skirts just as much as either of her friends—but it wasn’t long before the other children, too, began to regard her with a kind of awe, whispering that her milk-white skin and her lips like rose petals made her look like a princess in a story. Sara and Mila knew Isabella’s frustration, called her other things—intelligent and fierce and loyal and kind—but it was difficult for her to believe them.

The one thing Isabella _would_ admit to being proud of, and even then only to herself, was her hair. She’d kept it long all her life, in honor of her mother who had worn it the same way when she was alive; it hung down to her waist, black and straight and shiny like silk.

 _How beautiful your daughter is,_ everyone told her father. _Soon enough she’ll be turning the heads of all the young men from here to the docks._ And although Baba always waved them off, saying she was far too young to be thinking of such things—Isabella felt tied to her fate already, that of a wife and a mother, though she didn’t know if she even wanted to be either.

It pained her, sometimes, knowing her limitations. The new mage boy staying at the inn was a year younger than her, but it was said that already he had mastered beast-speech; that once a mountain lion had been about to devour him and he’d _argued_ the lion away. Sometimes Isabella borrowed books from Mistress Minako, reading about life in lands far beyond Hasetsu, wondering if she would ever get to see any of those places or do any of those things before she died. There was nothing wrong with living a quiet life, Isabella knew—but she couldn’t help feeling that she wanted something _more._ Exactly what, though, or how she would go about achieving it, she didn’t know.

 

\--

 

Isabella and Mila usually liked to go visit Sara just after quitting time on the farm. As the sun set, the three of them sat on the old fallen tree a little ways out into the field, the way they’d done ever since they were younger, waving goodbye to the farmhands as they went home to their families. One of the barn cats had had her litter a few weeks ago, and so the girls took the kittens out with them now, setting them down on the log and watching them totter across on unsteady legs. It was spring, the season of new beginnings, when anything seemed possible—the air was thick with dew and pollen, and the dragonflies hovered in the growing grass, as the bats started to emerge from their hiding places and flit across the sky in search of prey overhead.

“There’s a new mage at the inn again,” Mila remarked, twirling a dandelion between her fingers. Her wild red hair was pulled back from her face, her cheeks still flushed from the walk over. “His name’s Master Leroy, but he also goes by _Jean-Jacques the Healer,_ and he won’t let you forget it. He’s kind of funny-looking, and loud and smiles too much, but the girls are all twittery and stupid over him already.”

“You included?” Sara asked mischievously. Mila made a derisive sound and pushed Sara off the log, into a clump of grass.

“A healer,” Isabella repeated, as she gently caressed the white kitten, the runt of the litter and her favorite, in her lap. The village had enough midwives and mages schooled in basic medicine that the townsfolk never had to worry too much—but she had never met a dedicated healer before. Isabella could only imagine what he could do that the others couldn’t.

“He’s on his way to the royal city, he said.” Mila blew the dandelion hard, scattering feathery seeds into the air to be caught by the breeze, then lay back on the log with her head pillowed on her hands.

“It’s always a little sad when they leave, isn’t it, if they’ve stayed here awhile,” mused Sara, and Isabella knew they were all thinking the same thing. Just this past winter they had met a cheerful boy named Leo who was one of the player folk, the wandering musicians and actors and dancers who went from town to town to perform. He had left with the people who were his troupe and family both, and though he had promised to return, he was dearly missed already.

“Sometimes they stay.” Mila shrugs. “There’s something about the inn, you know. I asked Mari if the walls of the place are enchanted, but she denies it—she says Aunty Hiroko’s cooking is what draws them back.”

“Well, it’s certainly what brings me to the inn, the nights I ask to have supper there instead,” Sara grinned.

“Oh, is it?” Mila asked lightly, although Isabella didn’t miss the faint look of discomfort that crossed her friend’s face. For a while now, Isabella had been watching the other two girls, noting the way Sara touched Mila’s arm or the way Mila leaned her head against Sara’s, but keeping her own hopes for them a secret.

“Well. That and your cider,” Sara admitted, and Mila looked somewhat happier.

“Speaking of which, I’d better go. They’ll be looking for me to open a new keg.” Mila sprung to her feet and waved goodbye to them as she walked backwards onto the path into town.

“You’ll trip and fall, and then you’ll need _Jean-Jacques the Healer_ to patch you up,” Sara hollered. In response, Mila stuck her tongue out and flipped upside down so she was walking on her hands.

It was the very next day that Isabella caught a glimpse of the new mage for herself. She was stopping by the inn to deliver the pair of boots that Victor Nikiforov, the illusion-caster, had had repaired the week before. For all that Victor liked to float down the staircase an inch above the ground in the mornings, for show—the soles of his boots had been worn through. Before her father had finished them, Isabella had taken the liberty of embroidering a tiny daisy on each pullstrap, knowing how much Victor would smile when he saw them.

As soon as she walked through the inn door, she saw the newcomer sitting in one corner of the dining area, which he seemed to be using to see patients. The mage was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair tied back from his strong features. Isabella would not call him handsome, as Mila had said—but even from here, she could see that his eyes had a keen sparkle in them.

He was speaking with one of the woodcutters; the man’s son, a frail boy of four or five, was sitting on his knee. “At first we thought it was the hayfever, Master Leroy,” the father explained, wringing his hands a little. “But some mornings he wakes struggling for breath. Yesterday it was so bad his face started to turn blue.”

Master Leroy hummed and beckoned the child closer. He closed his eyes and stretched a hand out, and Isabella guessed he was casting his magic into him, searching for the cause of the difficulty. Then the mage spoke a few words, in a language Isabella had never heard before—and suddenly a white light shone between his hands, as though he had caught a star and held it.

Master Leroy passed the light over the boy’s throat and chest, and then dimmed it until it vanished completely. Strangely, there was something about it that reminded Isabella not of healing magic, but of the spells that Phichit, the light mage, cast sometimes—different-colored flames that did not burn hot, that he tossed and juggled and used in all manner of tricks to entertain the villagers. _Interesting,_ Isabella thought.

“There. You shall breathe easier, now,” Master Leroy told the boy, who smiled shyly and ran back into his father’s arms. “There was fluid in his lungs, but I’ve drained it. It shouldn’t bother him at all anymore,” the mage explained—and Isabella blinked, impressed. She had never heard tell of anyone who could clear a person’s breathing so easily.

The woodcutter tried to pay him, but Master Leroy waved him away airily. “Please. Consider it my thanks to the people of this charming village,” he said with a smile. “And if you come across anyone else in need of a healing, let them know that I am in town!”

After the man and his son had thanked him and left, Master Leroy turned his head and noticed Isabella standing by the bar. “I see I’ve had an audience,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he stood too.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Isabella said, and bobbed a quick curtsy. She was suddenly aware that she was still holding an old pair of boots in her hands, and felt slightly embarrassed. “I…had heard there was a master healer in town, and was wondering how you worked your magic.”

The mage straightened his shoulders. “I am Jean-Jacques Leroy, otherwise known as Jean-Jacques Phoenixsong, the Healer,” he declared. “In other parts I am called Breathgiver—Gate-closer, Lightbringer, Bloodsinger. There is no one I cannot cure, not in all the kingdoms of the world.”

How sure he sounded, Isabella thought. “You didn’t need the light, though,” she said with certainty now, feeling a little more bold. “You did that part just for show.”

The mage looked surprised for a second, and then his own smile grew wider. “You have a good eye, young miss. Whenever I heal an arrow wound, say, or a broken bone, my patients can feel at once that they are healed. But for ailments that are less visible to the eye, well…people don’t believe they’re cured unless they can _see_ the magic for themselves.”

“We’re not like that here,” Isabella said, as politely as she could muster. Everyone in Hasetsu was accustomed to the quieter, more unassuming forms that magic took—trusted the mages implicitly, that their spells would take and hold the way they promised. No one was so small-minded as to think that magic was always a grand display of power.

But Master Leroy merely chuckled. “Then your kinfolk are cleverer than most, Miss—?”

“Yang, sir.” Isabella inclined her head again.

“Are you here for luncheon, Miss Yang? I myself am famished. Boy!” Master Leroy called to Yuri Plisetsky, who was just about to climb the staircase, his cat padding along behind him. “Fetch me something from the kitchens, would you?” Master Leroy flipped a coin in Yuri’s direction, presumably intending for him to catch it.

However, Yuri let the coin fall to the floor with a sharp clatter, staring at it for a while before flicking his eyes back up. “I don’t answer to you, and you will call me _boy_ again only if you have decided you are no longer in need of several of your fingers,” Yuri snapped, while his cat made a huffing sound that almost sounded like laughter.

Rather than look insulted, Jean-Jacques chuckled indulgently. “What a wildcat you are!” he exclaimed. Yuri opened his mouth, no doubt about to unleash some invective in return—but then Master Yakov appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Yurochka,” Master Yakov rumbled. “I have taught you, have I not, that straightforwardness is different from rudeness?”

“But Master Yakov,” Yuri protested heatedly, “I was only—“

Master Yakov made a warning noise, and Yuri clamped his mouth shut. “I apologize for my impertinence,” he mumbled reluctantly to Master Leroy.

But the healer was apprising the elderly wizard with interest. “Yakov,” Master Leroy mused. “The students at the royal university still tell tales, I believe, of a mage with that name… They say his voice could coax even the unicorns out of their woods, and turn rampaging dragons aside from their paths of destruction. But one day, without warning or explanation, he walked off into the wilderness and was never seen again.”

Master Yakov, on the other hand, was eyeing Master Leroy with suspicion. “It’s a common enough name, mine is,” he grumbled in reply. “And all those greenhorns at that fancy school would do well to stop telling fairy stories and focus on their studies.” He crooked a finger at Yuri, who went to follow him up the stairs, but not before he had thrown a final backward glare in the new mage’s direction.

“Ah, well, no matter,” Master Leroy said lightly. “I suppose I must go to the kitchens and put in a request myself.” Then he turned back to Isabella. “Will you not dine with me, Miss Yang, perhaps out-of-doors? A pretty girl like you should not be spending such a beautiful spring day alone.“

That one word, so tiresome to Isabella by now, was enough to make her bristle. “With all due respect, Master Healer,” Isabella replied coolly, gripping Victor’s boots tighter, “I am not a pretty girl. And I am accustomed to spending days alone; I see no shame in it.”

For a moment, the mage looked truly taken aback. “Child…you mistake my meaning. I only thought to invite you to take some time to enjoy the sunshine.”

“Thank you, sir, but I have to be about other tasks today.” Isabella took one deliberate step backwards. “But I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay with us.”

“I am sure I will,” Master Leroy answered, smiling again as if nothing had happened. “I leave for the royal city in a few days’ time, but I hope to see all that this…quaint place has to offer before I do.”

 _The royal city,_ Isabella thought as she ran up the stairs to Victor’s room. Master Leroy would want to be on his way soon, then, no doubt eager to show the king and queen how quickly he could heal their papercuts. Surely, he would forget all about the backwards little village he had ridden through, and the young girl he slighted there, in no time at all.

 

\--

 

The next afternoon, Isabella was walking across the village square, back from the tanner’s shop—when she saw a familiar figure sitting on the rim of the fountain, regaling a gaggle of small children with a story. She grumbled inwardly to herself; of course the children would love Master Leroy, with his lively manner and theatrical voice. But then one of the little girls spied Isabella, and came running across the square to her.

“Miss Bella,” the girl squeaked, lisping through the gap in her teeth. “I fell down and hurt my arm, look.” She held up her forearm proudly, showing off a long, ugly red scrape.

“My! What a battle scar.” Isabella smiled, putting down her bundle. “Not to worry; we can fix that.” Drawing a fresh bucket of water up from the well, she dipped a clean handkerchief from her pocket in it, before tying it in a neat rabbit’s-ear knot around the girl’s arm. Isabella lost many handkerchiefs this way, but she didn’t mind in the slightest.

Whenever she patched one of the children up, Isabella always sent a little wish into the sky that they might heal quickly, and she did so now as she kissed the top of the girl’s head. “Don’t forget to wash it when you bathe later, and always keep it clean,” she said. Nodding eagerly, the girl ran off to rejoin her playmates, who were running off now to play a game of catch.

As the children dispersed, Isabella realized that Master Leroy was standing now, and staring at her. “What was that you just did?” he asked.

“That…I did?” Isabella stammered, feeling a flush rising into her cheeks at the way he was looking at her. “It was nothing. The children like me, so they come to me oft—”

“No. That was _magic,”_ the healer insisted, striding over to her with such purpose that Isabella nearly flinched. Then he laid his hands on her shoulders and commanded, “Look into my eyes,” and Isabella was too stunned to do other than obey. Master Leroy’s eyes were a bright, stormy gray, and as they searched Isabella’s, she felt her heart start to pound for a reason she could not name.

Appearing to see something then, Master Leroy pulled back. “By all the gods, Miss Yang, you have a gift,” he said wonderingly, as he slowly lowered his hands from her shoulders. “And a strong one, at that—it’s a wonder it hasn’t gotten out of control, what with you being unschooled for so long.”

“Gift?” Isabella echoed.

“Yes, yes,” the mage said impatiently, flapping a hand at her. “A magical gift! You need to be properly taught—trained—so you can become a healer.”

“A—a healer? Me?” Isabella repeated, still not daring to believe it.

Jean-Jacques sighed. “Did you never notice the wounds you tended healed more quickly than they would have otherwise? Did you never sense anything out of the ordinary about yourself?”

Isabella was about to say no, of course not; but then a memory rose to the surface of her mind—of earlier that spring, the day Sara’s cat had given birth in the stables. Isabella had been there to witness it, how the tiny white kitten had slid into the world last, still and unmoving. They had thought it dead, the glow in Sara’s eyes dimming, Michele already murmuring that they could bury it in the yard—but while the twins were cleaning up and making the necessary preparations, Isabella had seen it lying there, a poor limp scrap, and thought _how cold she looks._

Unnoticed, Isabella had taken the kitten’s body into her cupped hands, whispering a prayer to the gods, _please_. Just then, the faintest of mewlings had arisen from the kitten’s newly gaping mouth. “All she needed was a little warmth rubbed into her,” Michele had exclaimed, taking the now-squirming kitten into his hands—while Isabella kept the thought privately to herself, that she had barely touched the kitten before it stirred.

“I—I’m not sure,” she whispered.

Her uncertainty seemed to satisfy Jean-Jacques. “Well, then. That settles it.”

Isabella took a deep breath. “Sir. If I am to be your pupil, will I—have to travel with you? Leave the village?” Part of Isabella was thrilled at the prospect; but if she was being honest with herself, a much larger part of her was unwilling to leave home so suddenly, given that her world had just been turned upside down.

Master Leroy smiled. “Hmm. Perhaps one day we may travel, to lands far beyond here. But for now we stay put, so that I may instruct you thoroughly.” He set his hands on his hips and looked around, as if seeing Hasetsu for the first time. “Well! I certainly never thought to put down roots in a place like this,” he remarked. “The royal family will be sorry not to see me this year, but I will write to them to explain my absence. I can explain the matter to your family as well, if you need me to.”

Isabella’s heart was still thudding inside her chest and in her ears. She had magic. He was going to stay and teach her. She was going to be a _mage._ The words echoed faintly inside her head, seeming unreal, out of a dream—as though all of this were happening to someone in a story, and not to her. “Master Leroy,” she began, but the healer pulled a face.

“Please. If I am to be your teacher, you will call me Jean-Jacques,” he said, tossing his head. “’Master’ is for wizened old men, and I am no such thing.”

“Jean-Jacques, then,” Isabella conceded, and held out her hand. “My name is Isabella.”

“Isabella!” Jean-Jacques repeated, smiling as he took her small hand in his large one. “I think it will be no small adventure teaching you, Isabella,” he said, and they shook hands firmly. In the years that followed, Isabella would come to note that however much her teacher was fond of bestowing odd nicknames upon everyone in the village, he never failed to call her by anything but her full name.

 

\--

 

The word spread fast, that Jean-Jacques was staying in town; he moved into one of the third-floor rooms at the inn, which Hiroko rented out to long-term guests. Hiroko and her son Yuuri also cleaned out an unused storage room underneath the stairs, where Jean-Jacques and Isabella set up a cot for private examinations, though they paid many house calls as well.

Though some of the other girls in the village threw jealous, suspicious glares Isabella’s way, soon no one could deny that she deserved her place as the healer’s apprentice. All that spring, Isabella’s gift flowered under Jean-Jacques’ careful tutelage—and so did her mind. It was amazing how right everything felt, how quickly she realized that there were little things she’d always done that in fact stemmed from her magic.

Jean-Jacques showed her beautiful books, the likes of which even Mistress Minako didn’t own, full of colored illustrations of the insides of both humans and beasts. They made her a little squeamish, at first, but once she got used to them she thought how marvelous it was to know how the body worked—how its parts fit together so that when someone complained of an ache or a pain somewhere, you could tell them its source and go straight to it. At night, Isabella fell asleep still whispering the names of bones to herself— _tarsals, metatarsals, tibia, fibula._

When it came to himself, Jean-Jacques was fond of shortcuts and of doing things not by the book; he could afford to, powerful as he was. Often when he tried to show her an easier way of completing a spell, Isabella refused, choosing to go through it step by step.

“You _can_ do it this way, you know,” he told her once. “It’s not cheating, it’s simply more efficient.”

“I like making sure each part is finished before moving onto the next,” Isabella replied stubbornly. “It _feels_ better to me.”

“Very well,” Jean-Jacques said, with that smile that was becoming so familiar. “I’ve been thinking—you know, the patience you’ve had for needlework all these years is what will make you a fine surgeon. Your familiarity with the kettle and cauldron will serve you well when you brew potions. These are skills, often overlooked by other mages, that you should be proud of. Indeed,” he added, “my hands are not nearly as steady as yours. But that stays between us, understand?” The praise was unexpected, and Isabella didn’t quite know how to look him in the eye after that, even days later.

At first Isabella merely observed Jean-Jacques at work, and then he began to let her step in to treat patients with relatively minor afflictions. She was particularly pleased when she was able to heal one child who’d stepped into an ants’ nest, swollen bites mapping angry and red over his skin. After Isabella soothed the worst of the stinging on the boy’s legs, she sent him home with an ointment she had made and instructions not to scratch, and the satisfied look Jean-Jacques gave her sent a small thrill of happiness through her.

The townsfolk always tried to pay her, in produce or services if not with coin, and Isabella felt a little embarrassed about taking payment from people she’d known all her life. It was good, she thought, just knowing that what she had done had worked. Seeing the smiles on their faces, or hearing their sighs of relief. Her own cousins all regarded her now with a kind of awe, and some of the other mages in town, like Yuuri and Victor, gave her knowing smiles or winks when they saw her. But if anyone treated Isabella much the same as they always had, it was her beloved Sara and Mila—who claimed that they were not surprised in the slightest, that she had had magic in her all along.

One day Isabella was shocked when Michele came staggering through the door of the inn, supporting Emil. Emil’s arm was swathed in cloth, and his lips were pale. “Something exploded in his shop,” Michele babbled. “Only the table caught fire, we put it out, but his arm is badly burned—“

“Let me see, let me see,” Isabella murmured, kneeling as Emil collapsed into a chair and tucking her hair behind her ears. Emil unwrapped the makeshift bandage, wincing and sucking his breath in through his teeth. It was bad enough to have started blistering already, Isabella could see as she held back a wince herself.

Out of the corner of her vision, she could see Michele hovering anxiously in the background. “Will he—“ he began.

“He’ll be all right,” Isabella said firmly, as she closed her eyes and set to leaching the heat out of the burn.

It took time, but finally Isabella opened her eyes and took a deep breath; she’d healed the worst of the burn, and the blisters were gone, leaving the skin on Emil’s arm merely red and raw. Quickly, she mixed up a salve for Emil to bring home, adding a spoonful of honey at the last minute, and gave it to him along with a soothing tea.

After the pair had gone, thanking her profusely, Jean-Jacques brought Isabella a cup of water and one of the cold meat pies left over from the midday meal. She hadn’t even noticed him going into the kitchen. Healing always used up some of a mage’s energy, Jean-Jacques said, and sure enough Isabella’s stomach was already growling loudly.

“What put the thought into your head, to add honey to the salve?” her teacher asked, after he had seen that she was eating.

Isabella struggled to swallow her mouthful of pie. “I thought it would hasten the healing process,” she said thickly, “And even if it doesn’t, it won’t react with any of the other ingredients, so it shouldn’t do any harm.”

Jean-Jacques paused to consider this, and then smiled, reached out, and ruffled her hair gently. “Well done, my pupil,” he said in a fond tone, and then added more loudly, “Of course it stands to reason that Jean-Jacques the Magnificent would take on only the most clever and innovative of students!”

Isabella ducked her head away from his touch, and took another bite of pie. More and more she was beginning to sense that Jean-Jacques’ pompous demeanor was largely an act—that underneath it all he cared about people, deeply, and there just weren’t enough people in his life that he could call friends to recognize how much he cared.

 

\--

 

“What is it like…pulling back someone from death?” Isabella asked, when they were having breakfast in the inn one day.

Jean-Jacques was silent for a moment. “You know about how we use magesight,” he said finally, laying down his fork. “It is the same principle, but you must go far, far deeper—and thus have tempered your gift to be stronger than steel, in order to bring them back as well as yourself. Other healers would not dare attempt it, as it puts their own lives at risk.”

“So why do you?” Isabella whispered.

“I have never let anyone go beyond the black gates when it was not their time,” Jean-Jacques said, his face completely grave, his voice low. “Never. Everyone deserves to live through all the seasons of their life. I see it as my duty to make that so.”

Isabella was about to open her mouth to ask another question, but then the inn door opened, and old Jigo, who raised chickens on his farm at the edge of town, came stumping in holding a basket. “Master Healer,” Jigo said, taking his hat off. “Miss Bella. P’raps you could spare a moment for an old man.”

“Everyone is welcome at our clinic,” Jean-Jacques said magnanimously as he got to his feet. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“’S this knee,” the old man grumbled, gesturing at his right leg. “Bin givin’ me grief all my life. Never gave it a second thought, what with the arthritis and all, but folks’ve been tellin’ me how you can heal anythin’. So I figured I might see if you could do somethin’ for it.”

“Let’s go into the examination room,” Isabella said at once.

When Jigo was seated on the edge of the cot, Jean-Jacques stood back and nodded at Isabella. Closing her eyes, she cast her magic into him, searching for the injury in his leg.

She could see at once what the problem was; the bone had been broken a long time ago and left to heal on its own, and it had done so badly. “Did you ever injure this leg, Master Jigo?” she asked.

“Hmmm…oh. Guess I did fall off a horse once, but that was years ago.”

“And did you see a healer then?”

Jigo shook his head. “Picked myself up and brushed myself off, didn’t I?”

Isabella hesitated, glancing back at Jean-Jacques. He had taught her the theory, of how to rebreak a bone, but this was the first time she had ever had to do it. At first she thought her master was going to step in and say he would handle it—but Jean-Jacques merely nodded again. It was in her hands.

“Sir, the bone in your leg was broken, and it healed incorrectly,” Isabella told Jigo gently. “I will have to rebreak the bone and set it again, so that it may heal properly. I—I can give you a potion to numb the pain, and I will try not to cause you any more discomfort than I need to.”

The old man merely waved his hand. “Bin banged up worse’n this before, Miss Bella. I doubt there’s anythin’ you could do to hurt me.”

After Jigo had drunk the numbing potion and was ready, Isabella took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and narrowed her magical gift to a fine point. Locating the break, she used her magic to apply pressure with sharp, swift precision. _There._

The second the bone broke, Isabella cried out aloud because she could _feel_ it, the sickening _snap_ of it. But Jean-Jacques was there in an instant, speaking to her through mindspeech. _Do not falter now,_ he said sternly. _See it through._

Choking back a sob, Isabella pushed her gift forward, surrounding the bone with healing magic and holding it in place until it was done. Finally, she opened her eyes with a gasp, struggling to breathe. Jigo’s leg was healed, she could feel it—but she herself felt worse than she ever had after healing anyone.

“There! Well done—“ Jean-Jacques started to say, but Isabella whirled to face him.

“Don’t _ever_ make me do that again,” she gritted out, before flying from the room.

In the kitchen, Isabella bent over the washbasin and splashed her face, taking deep breaths to keep her breakfast down. Her knees were shaking, and her cheeks burned with shame at the way she’d acted, in front of a _patient._ There would come times when the crisis at hand would be far worse and far more urgent, would require a more steely heart than what she had just shown she possessed.

Behind her, she heard Jean-Jacques enter the kitchen. He was merely standing there, not speaking. “I’m sorry,” Isabella murmured first, without turning around. “I’m sorry, I know it’s something I have to learn, it’s just…” She rubbed her eyes fiercely. “It felt so _wrong.”_

“You will grow accustomed to it in time,” Jean-Jacques’ voice sounded from the doorway. “Some tasks require pain before healing.”

Turning to face him finally, Isabella was startled when she saw Jean-Jacques was holding out a basket, the same one the old man had brought in. “Master Jigo said to give the healer’s apprentice his thanks,” Jean-Jacques said quietly. Inside the basket lay a dozen fresh eggs, each one a perfect, creamy brown. Isabella reached out to touch the smooth shell of one with a finger, and blinked back the sting of tears again.

At home that evening, while Isabella was washing the dishes, her father turned to her and said, “I heard what you did for old Jigo. That leg’s been bothering him for a long time. He’s very grateful.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Isabella said softly, banishing the memory of the bone breaking from her mind.

Baba hummed. “Speaking of which, I passed Master Jean-Jacques in the square yesterday. He says you’re advancing quickly in your studies. Are you sure you aren’t overworking yourself?”

“No, I want to work hard,” Isabella said, vigorously scrubbing sauce off a plate. “So I can—be a mage that you can be proud of.”

A pause filled the air, and then Isabella heard Baba get up from his chair and cross the room to her. “Dear heart,” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. “I have always been proud of you. Mage or no, you are the crowning jewel of my life. And I know your mother can see you now, and that she feels the same.”

Isabella disliked knowing she had shed tears twice in one day—she endeavored not to shed them even once, if she could help it—but she did so now. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned her face into Baba’s shoulder and leaned into him, and father and daughter both remained standing there until the dishwater turned cold.

 

\--

 

It wasn’t long before Isabella realized what was wrong. It was her hair; it was a burden, in this hotter season, and even when she tied it back it was too heavy, and loose strands always fell into her face when she was bending over a patient.

So that afternoon she knocked on Jean-Jacques’ bedroom door, and when he opened it, she held a pair of scissors out to him. “I need to cut my hair,” Isabella said, her heart pounding. “Could you do it for me? Please?”

Jean-Jacques hesitated a second. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather Mistress Hiroko—“

“No,” Isabella said, more firmly. “They’d ask questions, and I—I just want this to be over and done with.”

Nodding, Jean-Jacques let the door swing wide, and left it open as Isabella seated herself in front of his dresser. She closed her eyes as her master set the scissor blades against the long, silken curtain of her hair, and she felt them cold on the back of her neck. Then the blades closed with a snip, and Isabella sucked in her breath silently as she felt the first weight fall away from her head. If Jean-Jacques noticed it, he said nothing, merely continued his work until the rest of her head felt as light.

“There,” he said finally, and there was something in his voice Isabella couldn’t quite figure out. “Take a look.” She opened her eyes and stared at the mirror.

At first she hated it, and thought she’d made a terrible mistake. But as Isabella turned her head from side to side, admiring how her hair was cut straight to her jaw, she began to grow acquainted with this new person she saw before her. She looked older, she thought; wiser. Not like a fledgling anymore, but a hawk unafraid of the wide open sky.

“You look like a mage,” Jean-Jacques said then, and she could see his smile reflected in the mirror, too.

Standing, Isabella brushed the hair off her shoulders and smiled back. “Good,” she said. “Now, we’d better get going. We have many house calls to make today, and you know how impatient Mistress Fumiko gets if we’re late.” With a chuckle, Jean-Jacques held out his arm, and Isabella took it, and the two mages descended the staircase together.

They had work to do.

**Author's Note:**

> JJ: YER A WIZARD, ISABELLA


End file.
